


Callisteia

by Alexandria (heartfullofelves)



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Autumn, F/F, Festivals, Sunrises, Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-17 12:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8144372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartfullofelves/pseuds/Alexandria
Summary: Sappho loses and rediscovers her muse.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [escribo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/escribo/gifts).



**callisteia**

_noun_

awards given for beauty

 

Sappho has never been in want of inspiration. With Aphrodite’s blessing, the words always come to her. Composing is as natural as breathing; she doesn’t have to think too hard about it; she gives her ideas voice without concerns of rhythm and rhyme. Sappho is never in want of inspiration.

It’s been days now and she hasn’t written a thing. Not one word. She’s tried, of course, picking up her stylus and her tablet, gazing out at the Ionian Sea until the late-summer sun scorches her skin – and writing nothing.

She dedicates a whole day to housework, cleaning and tidying and cooking in order to refresh her mind, and tries to write again the next day. She goes to bed with an empty tablet – again.

She wakes at dawn and goes to sit on the terrace, watching the sun rise over the ocean. The red-orange-purple-infused sky takes her breath away. The colours are beautiful, beautiful enough to dedicate whole poems to. With this in mind, she grabs her tablet and scrawls a few lines, but when she reads over them they sound forced and unnatural.

Tears wet her cheeks. Has her goddess taken away her talent permanently? Will she be forever without a voice for all her thoughts and ideas?

“Why have you forsaken me, Aphrodite?” she begs the sky. “What have I done to offend thee?”

She receives no reply.

* * *

Before she knows it, the Callisteia is upon her and still she has not written anything worthy. She leads her chorus girls in song and dance for the festival and she savours every moment – allowing herself to enjoy the festivities takes her mind off her lost muse. She smiles and sings and dances and is truly happy for the first time in weeks.

She’s beginning a prayer to Hera when she sees her: the red-haired flute player in the procession on the other side of the temenos. Sappho stumbles over a line, but her chorus smooths over it, her mistake lost amongst the collection of voices. Sensing her stare, the woman looks up and smiles at Sappho when there’s a break in the song. Sappho returns the smile and is able to continue the prayer.    

The woman is crowned the fairest woman of Lesbos, and Sappho is not surprised in the least. Her heart jumps a little when she hears the woman’s name for the first time: Myrrine. Aphrodite, she thinks, has not forsaken her after all.

After the prize ceremony, Sappho knows just two things about Myrrine: that she has red hair and that she plays the aulos. But that’s all the information she needs in order to know she must find her. She spends the rest of the evening searching, but there are so many people and she never again spots the red-haired flute player in the crowd.

The Callisteia draws to a close without Sappho finding either Myrrine or inspiration. She retreats into herself, not leaving her house except for food and communicating with no-one save the merchants in the agora. She alternates her days between housekeeping and lying in the sun, tablet ready at her side, in case her muse reappears. She spends hours in prayer to Aphrodite and to Euterpe, Muse of lyric poetry. She begs and bargains and gives offerings, but still nothing changes. She can’t write and she can’t move forwards.

After a week, her protégée, Gaiana, comes. Gaiana is a young yellow-haired girl, a singer and a writer. “Sappho,” she says, sitting next to her on the terrace and resting her head on her shoulder, “what’s wrong?”

Sappho’s sigh is deep, and she feels it all through her body, even in her toes. “Everything,” she says.

Gaiana lifts her head off Sappho’s shoulder and looks at her with reproach. “Tell me,” she demands.

Sappho sighs again, and tells her first all about her loss of inspiration and then all about Myrrine, the woman she can’t find.

“Well why didn’t you say so?” exclaims Gaiana. “Myrrine is my aunt!”

“Oh,” is all Sappho can reply. She ducks her head, her cheeks tinged pink.

Gaiana laughs, a young giggle that makes Sappho remember how it felt to be that age, no longer a child but not yet a woman. Sappho embraces her, and laughs too. Laughing feels good.  

“Myrrine is married,” says Gaiana, and Sappho’s heart sinks before Gaiana can continue, “but it’s a loveless marriage. She and her husband have no children, and she gets lonely. My family and I visit her all the time, but it’s not enough. I think she needs a friend her own age. Someone like you, maybe.” She winks.

Sappho smiles. There’s hope yet.

Gaiana tells her that Myrrine loves nature and often walks unaccompanied in the forest outside the city.

“That’s dangerous,” Sappho remarks. “A woman on her own in the woods? All sorts of things could happen to her.”

“True,” agrees Gaiana. “She should be protected.” She stares meaningfully at Sappho.

A sly smile graces Sappho’s lips. “Yes, she should.”

“I believe she left her house just before I got here,” says Gaiana. “If you go now, you may be able to catch her.”

Sappho stands, and reaches down to kiss Gaiana’s forehead. “Thank you, dear.”

“Go, go!” Gaiana shoos her away. “Hurry!”

Sappho laughs, and straps on her sandals. She runs.

The trees are beginning to drop their leaves, which are darkening to shades of red and brown. Sappho notes this and starts composing a couple of lines in her head. She plays them over and over in her mind as she runs to the forest, and decides they’re good enough. At last, she has composed something good enough.

She’s smiling as she reaches the edge of the woods and slows down to a walk. She looks around and finds the forest path. She starts down it, breathing in the earthy smells of the forest and hitching up her yellow peplos so it doesn’t get covered in dirt as she walks.

She ambles along the path for what seems like a long time before she comes around a corner and sees her. The red-haired woman is standing before her in a pink chiton and looks as if she’s been waiting.

“You must be Sappho.” The voice is silky smooth, and just the sound of it is enough to make Sappho’s heart ache.

“And you’re Myrrine,” Sappho answers. “I saw you get crowned the fairest at the Callisteia.”

“That’s right,” Myrrine smiles, leaning on a tree. “And you’re a poet. I would love to hear you sing.” She has beautiful honey-coloured eyes that shine when she smiles. If eyes truly are the windows to the soul, then Myrrine has a beautiful and honest soul. Sappho thinks she could get lost in those eyes.

Sappho’s heart flutters, and she takes a step closer to Myrrine. “And you’re a flute player. I would love to hear you play.”

“I would love to play for you. How about tonight?”

“If you play for me tonight, I’ll sing for you,” Sappho bargains.

“I think that’s a fair deal. Shall we walk?” Myrrine holds out her arm and Sappho links hers with it.  

“We shall.” Sappho’s voice is light but certain, and as they tread the forest path, she thinks they’ll be walking together for years to come.

* * *

A week later, Sappho sits up in bed and, quietly so as not to wake the red-haired beauty lying beside her, goes to sit on the terrace underneath the autumn sun. She picks up her stylus and writes, thanking Aphrodite and the Callisteia for returning her muse.

When she’s finished, she goes in and kisses Myrrine awake. “I’ve got something to show you,” she whispers.

The poem is good enough, and she’s ready to share it.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Lawrence Alma-Tadema's Melody on a Mediterranean Terrace.  
> 


End file.
